Prologue: Reawakening
A/N: Just before we start- to all my old (and new, i guess) 'ficfans,' i know it's been ages. I apologise. Unfortunately for the people who wanted to see my old story continued... uh... it's not going to be. Or, at least, not for a very, very long time. This new story is going to be an... upgrade of the old, i guess you can call it.
And now, to everyone: Welcome! To this fanfic! Don't expect a new chapter any more than once a month. I hope I don't decide this one is crap and abandon this one too, lol. Oh yeah, and please leave reviews so that I don't feel rejected... All that besides... enjoy!
bbye
[P.S: Can somebody talented (Talon-ted) with a lot of time to waste please draw some coverart? Because I can't draw, and apparently nobody on the internet has ever thought of VayneXTalon. I really don't care how bad it is, as long as it is clear that there is Vayne, and there is Talon. If nobody does it, i'll have to, and you guys don't want to see that. Send me a PM if you got something. THANKS]
Before
All was silent in the dark mansion. It was far past midnight, and most slept soundly. Only one little girl remained awake, her keen eyes picking shapes out of the darkness as she listened to the sound of silence ringing in her ears. Her covers were twisted around her legs, testament to the stifling heat that kept her awake. The girl sighed, and shifted onto her side, trying to get as comfortable as possible so she could finally have the sweet release of sleep. Outside, the full moon glowed dully through a choking sky of dark clouds, like it was being smothered by them. Crickets began to chirp, a night-time bird howling its grief into the uncaring night, into the mind of the sleepy girl. She curled up, tucking her knees tightly under her chin as her eyelids began to close, and her breathing slowed, until she lost consciousness.
A muffled sound woke the girl. Blearily, her eyes opened for a second, before she closed them again, snuggling deeper into her covers. It came again, an out-of-place, unnatural sound, and she knew she had not imagined it. Warily, she sat up, swinging her legs out of bed, ignoring her body's tired protests. It was storming outside, the wind roaring its fury as it screamed through the trees, the raindrops battering the roof wrathfully. One hand scrabbled at her bedside table for the light switch. A tap, tap, tap came at the window, and the girl froze. Her mind began conjuring all kinds of terrors that could be hiding in the darkness, a long, pale hand, reaching for her... Where is the light switch?
Finally, her fingers closed around the switch, and the room lit up in blazing light, chasing back the shadows. She grabbed her glasses and slipped them on, bringing out her slightly messy room in sharp detail. The girl breathed a sigh of relief as she saw the branch that had been lightly rapping on her window. No murderers here.
Of course, she was wrong.
The girl bent over, reaching for a book she had carelessly tossed by her bed. She felt restless now; no use trying to sleep again, even if her tutors would reprimand her heavily tomorrow. Her messy black hair fell over her eyes, obscuring her vision as she groped around the floor for the book.
After a few excessive seconds fumbling around, the girl finally managed to grab the book. She sat back up, tossing her hair out of her face with a huff of annoyance. She rolled backwards onto her stomach, opening the book at the folded page. She put a hand under her chin, then began to read in the dim light.
Scarcely two pages in, the girl heard a scream.
She scrambled upright, her heart pounding in her mouth. After a few seconds straining her ears in the stillness, she gently put one foot down, praying that the floorboards wouldn't creak. Thankfully, it made no sound, so she silently stood up and began to creep slowly towards the source of the noise, leaving the book open on her pillow. Step by cautious step, she crept towards the doorway. Where had that scream come from? Her parents' room? She didn't want to think about what would be waiting for her when she arrived.
She reached the gaping doorway. The door was already wide open, the shadows beyond lurking like a living thing. Cautiously, she poked her head out into the hallway. Darkness both ways.
Here, the girl hesitated. The scream sounded like it had come from the right side of the house. Go to her parents, where a murderer might be prowling? Or go to the left, where she could sneak out the front door, maybe get help from the guards that patrolled the house. The option her parents would want her to take.
Taking a deep breath, the girl stepped out into the hallway. Turning to the right, she began to sneak towards her parents' room. Through the veil of darkness, she could barely see the trophies adorning the wall, glaring down at her as if it were her fault they were up there. One moose in particular glowered especially vindictively at her. Suppressing a shudder, she crept past them. Only a little further…
The girl stopped, reaching upwards. Standing on the tips of her toes, she was just able to reach her father's huge wooden hunting crossbow, which was hung proudly on the wall above a quiver of bolts. Slowly, making as little noise as possible, she lowered it carefully onto the floorboards. She grabbed the soft leather quiver tightly in one hand, making sure the bolts didn't rattle. She removed the bolts carefully, shoving them into her pocket less so.
The girl knelt next to the crossbow, resisting the temptation to hurry. In her hand, she held a single bolt, which she proceeded to load into the crossbow. Her father had taught her this the previous season on one of their rare outings together; spring, when buck ran rampant through the woods down the street. He had also taught her to shoot- an activity in which she had no lack of skill. She remembered her father's pride as she landed her very first shot, ruffling her hair as he beamed. "Straight through the eye," he had boomed. "Good girl."
The girl felt herself smile distantly, even as the bolt made a satisfying click as it was loaded into the barrel of the crossbow. Snapping out of her dream, she stood, hefting the crossbow in her grip, before creeping the few remaining feet to her parents' room.
The door was ajar. She nudged it open with her toe, wincing as it emitted a small creak. She stepped through the doorway, and lightning flashed ominously as she entered.
The lightning lit up a scene straight from a nightmare.
At first glance, it appeared that everything was the same. The numerous trinkets and books lay on their shelves, the titles barely visible in the moonlight. The wooden floorboards, polished as usual, still had their sheen to them. The bed was still…
The bed.
There was blood splattered across the previously pristine white sheets.
Her father lay in the middle of all the chaos, strangely tranquil in the maelstrom. His bearded face was a mask of peace, even as a dark stain tainted the twisted sheets he lay in. Her mother, however, lay slumped against the far wall, her bare body wrenched violently to one side. Her throat was slit from ear to ear, a bright red smile that did not match the expression of pure terror on her face.
A dark kaleidoscope of roiling emotions struck the girl as she took in the once-grand room, a mixture of fear, despair, and panic, the expressions flickering across her face involuntarily. The crossbow almost clattered from her grip. She felt numb as she squeezed her eyes shut, drawing in a deep breath. She almost threw up as the coppery stench of blood entered her nose, filthy and brutal.
A hastily stifled gasp opened her eyes.
Her blank gaze met the shocked face of… a boy. He must have been about her age, shock of brown hair obscuring his eyes. His damp cloak was evidently purple, even under the layers of mud and blood, and was tipped with blades. In his hand, he held a long, sharp dagger that glinted in the dim moonlight. It appeared he had just walked out of the bathroom, water trickling down his arms and dripping off the edge of the blade.
Washing off the blood.
As she pointed the tip of the crossbow at him, the boy froze. Even if she had been terrible with her aim, she wouldn't miss at point blank range. His eyes were fixed on the bolt, nestled in the groove of the barrel.
One twitch of her finger, and his life would ebb away, as her parents' had only a few moments ago.
The boy seemed to realise this, as he shifted uncomfortably, the hair moving out of his face. As he did so, she caught his stare. He had deep, clever brown eyes, swirling depths, dark beautiful gemstones that glittered like the blade in his hand. The eyes of a murderer.
As their eyes met, the girl felt another feeling, rising up and surpassing the others, taking control. It burned, white hot, searing away the tears, the terror, the emotions, until all that was left was an endless churning. This new feeling urged her to pull the trigger. He deserves it, doesn't he?
A small part of the old girl still remained, rapidly shrinking. This part felt the wrongness radiating from this new feeling. But it was powerless to do a thing as the burning swallowed it completely.
The girl was gone.
The Night Hunter stood in her place. Her face was blank as she aimed the crossbow at his heart. It had to be perfect. Time seemed to slow as she closed one eye and peered down the barrel of the crossbow. The churning was urging her to shoot, clamouring for blood. She felt her heartbeat pounding in rhythm with the raindrops.
Yes, it would have its blood.
Her finger tightened on the trigger.
And then he moved.
The boy walked with his head down, hood up, hands buried in his pockets. It was late at night, the pale full moon glaring abnormally luminously down at the colourful crowd below. The friendly bustle and clattering that surrounded him in the marketplace did not reflect his black mood. He had been traversing the continent for the past week, barely stopping except to restock on supplies, and he still felt his limbs throbbing from the repetitive trudging they had been put through.
The shouts of hawkers calling their wares passed over him as the various smells invaded his keen senses. The bitter smells of exhaust smoke from the factories nearby mixed with the sour smell of badly-cooked pumpkin pie, one particular delicacy of the festival he did not care to try. The boy turned his head to the distant factory chimneys, pouring out smoke into the once pure night air. This part of Demacia did not reflect the same shining spires of the Lightshield Palace that it was so well-known for.
He muttered a meaningless apology as he bumped roughly into a finely-dressed merchant. The merchant sniffed haughtily, turning his back to the boy, who clenched a fist as he thought savage thoughts.
'You ought to bash that stuck-up shit's face in,' a dark voice growled harshly from the back of his mind, 'Just keeping punching and punching and punching until it caves in and the blood sprays out and his face isn't a face-'
The boy shut out these thoughts with a practiced exhale, and the tension drained out of him. He wouldn't-couldn't- let these thoughts dictate his actions. It was these impulsive thoughts that screwed up a mission, that got you killed in the middle of action. One slip- and you were gone for good. Instead, he settled for a quick two-fingered salute in the direction of the retreating merchant. Faggot.
He managed to evade running into any more of the crowd, and eventually made it out of the throng with a sigh of relief. It was Patriot's Day- a celebration these Demacians valued very highly- and the timing could not have been worse. He let his thoughts wander to his new boss, the mysterious Marcus DuCouteau. Why had he decided to plan the mission for this exact day, of all others? Was this some kind of test? All Runeterra to the stars above knew it would be swarming with people. Tourists, loyal Demacian nobles, even simple peasants taking advantage of the holiday would all be crowding every marketplace. All increasing his risk of being found and apprehended as a Noxian spy. Right now, that risk was so high, the chances of being discovered were practically non-existent. For any ordinary assassin, anyway…
Maybe I should conduct a little research of my own, he mused to himself. From an early age, the boy had learned that everyone, no matter who, had their secrets. The pastor was an alcoholic. The shopkeeper was a gambler. Every man had his demons. I wonder what he's hiding…?
The boy turned around the corner, away from the bright and cheery celebrations, and into a small and gloomy lane. Here, the tall buildings hid him from the moon's sleepy vision, basking him in the grateful embrace of the shadows. Almost unconsciously, he melted into the darkness like a ghost, his thoughts of Marcus DuCouteau still bouncing around his head.
These thoughts vanished like a fleeting shadow as he came to the foot of a hill, a winding path carving its way through the dark grass like a scar. At the top of the hill, a dark, towering mansion stood theatrically against the dark and cloudy sky. Around the base, guards patrolled back and forth like loyal ants, their rifles held ready in their hands. The boy took note of all these factors, his keen eyes never missing any detail, even in the clouded moonlight.
Isolated house on high ground, with a clearing of one hundred metres on all sides. Highly guarded. Windows only on the second floor. If this isn't a test, I don't know what is. The edge of his mouth curled up into a supercilious smirk. Challenge accepted.
Crouching low, the boy snuck over to the jagged locked gate that marked the edge of enemy territory. He pressed his back to the cold steel, the coarse rust prodding into him like the tip of a dagger. The grass by the gate beyond was long, long enough to reach over his head if he crawled. However, this would sacrifice his speed for stealth, and he would be at higher risk of discovery if one of the guards happened to look over and see the grass mysteriously parting. No, he had to do this in a vastly different fashion. A much more violent fashion, albeit far riskier. Not that it mattered to him.
Taking a dagger from the depths of his cloak, he quickly scanned it for the priming switch on the hilt. He glanced carefully around, before priming it, then turning and launching it high into the air. He watched as it arced through the night sky, the weighted blade glistening in the moonlight as it began to plummet, tip first, towards the ground. In his hand, he now held a small, glistening black controller, with just a single button.
The dagger hit the ground, scarcely five metres away from the nearest pair of guards. From where he was standing, he heard nothing, but the boy knew the guards had heard the audible thud from where they stood. Their heads snapped around, and the two nearest of the ten started slowly towards it, scanning the grass for movement with their half-raised rifles. Closer…
The boy waited until they were almost standing on it, until he could wait no longer. His thumb pressed down. The dagger exploded, sending tiny razors of metal shrapnel towards the guards. The shrapnel burrowed into them, penetrating vitals as the tiny shards killed them instantly. They dropped without a sound, collapsing in the long grass as the others rushed towards them. Seizing his chance, the boy quickly scaled the fence, dropping onto his belly in the long grass. Then, he lay still as he planned his next move.
I'm about ten metres from the house. The guards are about twenty metres away, maybe they won't spot me if I make a dash towards the house…
The boy peeked over the edge of the swaying grass. Five of the guards had made a ring, watching for any further threats, inside which the other three knelt beside their fallen comrades.
They're standing all bunched up in a group… maybe I should use another explosive? Almost immediately, he realized the flaw in this plan, banishing the thought from his mind. No… I can't risk waking anyone inside. If the first one hasn't done so already, the second surely will. Looks like I'll have to do this the hard way…
Rising to his knees, he mentally prepared himself for what he was about to do.
Focus…
The boy spread out his arms, and began to run, swaying in time with the grass. He kept low, and the howling of the wind masked the sounds of the grass parting. Almost there…
A shot startled him out of his concentration. A quick glance to his left revealed one of the guards, his rifle still raised, gesturing to his other companions as he pointed in the direction of the boy.
The boy cursed, abandoning all effort at stealth, and sprinted the last few metres. He dove into a roll that took him behind the wall of the house, which he quickly started scaling. He plunged his two climbing spikes one by one into the brittle wood, his panic lending him superhuman strength. It began to rain, the skies opening to torrents of water that fell from the heavens endlessly. The boy's already-drained muscles burned like they were ripping apart, forcing him to stop where he was. He looked down, the rough wood of the wall scraping against his cheek. He was about five or six metres off the ground, his legs dangling in the open air. The wind battered at him, screaming its frustration as he clutched desperately to the wall, the blades on the end of his cloak whipping dangerously near him.
The guards ran around the corner, stopping just below him, their rifles raised as they searched the long grass for the boy. When it was apparent he was not hiding there, one of them barked an order and they half-lowered their rifles. This guard, who he assumed was the leader, gestured to the others, and said something he couldn't quite catch over the howling of the gale.
I can't let them raise the alarm.
One of the guards, looking bored as the others, let his gaze wonder. His eyes roved up the side of the house, seeking something for his mind to linger on. He looked a little higher, his stare catching onto a dark shape, clinging onto the side of the wall. Then, his eyes opened in realization, and he opened his mouth to shout…
…as the boy's heels connected solidly with his head, a sickening crack emanating from his neck as it snapped cleanly. Another four guards dropped dead, blood spurting from various wounds, as daggers sprouted from their skulls. The boy lashed out with his climbing spikes, driving them into the chests of the two adjacent guards, who toppled alongside their comrades. That left only the commander, who raised his rifle, his mouth a grim line as he took aim. The boy rolled, diving to one side as the rifle cracked again, the bullet tearing a hole in his cloak as he flicked his wrist.
The knife spun through the night air, flashing in the light of the full moon. The commander didn't even have time to react before it planted itself between his eyes. He collapsed, his mouth agape as the light left his eyes, his gun thumping lightly to the earth alongside his outstretched hand.
The boy stood up, dusting himself off. He took a look around, surveying his work. The eight guards lay dead, all in various positions, their seeping blood rapidly being washed into the grass by the pouring rain.
All in less than a minute. Not bad.
The boy looked down at himself and grimaced. A combination of mud, blood, and rain soaked his clothes, staining them a horrible shade of rusty brown. There was a rip in his cloak, where the bullet had torn through the supple fabric. It didn't look good. He sighed, bending over to collect his weapons, which were still embedded in the bodies of the guards. Once all were collected, he held them out in front of him, letting the rain wash off the blood. Watching this process take place, the boy frowned.
Hang on… there's only seven here. Where is the… ah.
The boy crossed over to where one of the guards lay turned over, his face against the wet ground. Roughly, he pulled the dead man's shoulder so that he was facing the sky, his blank eyes filling with raindrops that washed away the blood and mud that spattered his face.
The boy reached for his dagger, pointing directly upwards like a red-stained obelisk. He tugged it out of the guard's face with considerable effort, grunting as it came free. He stood, and was just about to turn away, when he noticed a glinting at the man's belt. Crouching, he replaced his assorted daggers and knives at his own belt, and took a closer look.
The rewarding twinkle of gold came again, and then it was that the boy noticed the spilt coins that lay scattered on the ground, surrounding the dead man like an aura. The rain was pounding them into the ground, slowly adding layer after layer of mud, trying to smother their brilliance. Quickly, the boy began to snatch them up, before the earth consumed them. Once he had done this, he cast another look around, his sharp eye only now catching on the familiar brown leather of coin purses. A flicker of amusement crossed his mind as he began to collect them all.
And I call myself a pickpocket…
Once this too was completed, and his own purse was significantly heavier, the boy straightened, stretching his back so that it popped satisfyingly. He then rolled his shoulders in their sockets, loosening them for the climb ahead. Then, he took out his climbing spikes again with a flourish, drew in a deep breath, and began to climb the side of the house once more.
The boy's arms were throbbing by the time he had reached the window. He heaved himself through the already half open gap, slithering to the floor on his belly, then collapsed with a barely audible sigh. He lay there, his lungs aching as he forced himself to breathe quietly.
Once he had rested himself sufficiently, he rolled over onto his back. He sat up, using the windowsill to heave himself to his feet. Then he cast a glance through the room, the moon giving him dim vision.
It was an enormous room, at least compared with the claustrophobic sewers he had, until of late, called home. It would have been cluttered, if not for the piles and piles of various objects stacked meticulously on the many wardrobes. Glass sculptures sparkled as he looked at them, topping the volumes of dusty books that lay everywhere. To the right, an open doorway leading to a tiled room suggested a bathroom. In the centre of the chaos, two figures lay prone in a large and ornate bed, their soft breathing filling the room. The boy took this all in as he recalled his objective.
Infiltrate the mansion. Find the necklace. Kill only if necessary.
Infiltrate the mansion- check.
Next, find the necklace.
The boy silently turned, and began to rummage softly through the drawers, pulling each one open, shutting it as it did not yield the prize. Many contained books, magazines, old newspapers- far from the necklace he was searching for. It took him a little over twenty minutes to search all the drawers, opening each one, peering inside, and shutting them again without making a noise. Once, he almost screwed himself over when he pulled a magazine-filled drawer too far out. It began to topple, and the boy's heart leapt into his mouth as it scraped noisily against the one below it. He caught it, hardly daring to breathe as one of the figures in the bed stirred, shifting beneath the covers before stilling once more.
After he had sifted through all of the drawers, each containing nothing but junk, he slowly straightened, and scanned the room again. I've looked everywhere… except for…
The boy turned his gaze to the figures on the bed, sleeping peacefully. They'll be sleeping forever. His heart sank as he approached them, drawing a long, thin, and extremely sharp dagger. These weren't soldiers. They weren't his fellow thieves and backstabbers. They were civilians. May as well just get it over with.
He reached the man first. His bearded face was peaceful as the boy drew back the covers, his breathing soft and rhythmic. The boy held his dagger over the man's bare chest, above his upper heart. The man never ever stirred as the dagger pierced his flesh, puncturing his aorta, killing him instantly. The boy slid the blade out, the tip dripping blood onto the rapidly darkening sheets. He leant over the man, being careful not to put his hand in any blood, and peered at his neck. It was bare. Of course it is...
He began to cross over to the other side of the bed, his footsteps silent as the witnessing moon. He froze, stock still as the bed creaked. The boy slowly turned his head towards the source.
"Honey? Are you awake?" whispered a woman softly as the covers shifted. A dark silhouette sat up in bed, leaning towards the man. "Honey?"
The boy cursed internally, throwing his dagger in a rush. He felt the mistake in his throw as soon as it had left his hand, wincing as he realized it. The woman jerked back with a scream as it thudded into the bed, an inch from her nose. She scrambled out of the bed, her unclothed body pale as the moonlight fell on her and she backed away, trying to cover herself with her hands.
A necklace shone around her neck.
The boy drew another dagger as he approached her, the edge gleaming equally as sharp as the previous. The woman felt a wall at her back, and glanced panickily towards the door, on the other side of the room, the boy standing between them menacingly.
"Please- you can't- you don't understand! I can't die yet-" she whimpered, her eyes wet with unshed tears. "I'm not ready!" The boy felt his jaw clench at these words, the injustice of the irony evident in his mind.
"Nobody is."
The woman's eyes widened momentarily, as she tried to dodge away from the corner. The boy leapt forwards, anger sending his blade slicing through the air with a distant whoosh. It tore through her throat, sending her tumbling to the floor. She lay in a heap at the bottom of the wall, her blood spattered across the floor as more spurted from her throat to join it, giving her the illusion of crimson red garments.
Kill only if necessary
only if necessary.
The boy slowly became aware of the metallic, yet familiar smell of blood, hanging thickly in the air. He stooped, ripping the blood-covered necklace from the dead woman's neck, placing it into an empty pouch that hung securely from his belt. Then, he turned away from the two bodies, and walked gradually towards the bathroom, stepping inside. Twisting the handle of the tap, he began to cleanse his hands of the blood. As he did this, he thought about his parents- something he had not opted to do for years. He couldn't recall much about them- all that remained were the blurry memories of a young child- but he remembered the fateful day he had been cast out. His father had been away again, on some vague business trip, and finally his cruel mother had decided to take action.
"But why, mother? Why must I leave? I'm not ready."
He remembered the disgust, thick in her voice, as he stood on the doorstep of the house.
"Stupid, stupid boy. Nobody is ready. Now get out! Go!"
He had run then, confused and alone, the tears streaming from his cheeks. The boy now splashed water onto his face, looking up to meet his own gaze in the mirror. He sighed, casting the unwanted memories out of his mind, then wiped his face on a nearby towel. Then, after one last look in the mirror, he left the bathroom.
Then he froze again with a sharp intake of breath.
The girl on the other side of the room quickly spotted him, lifting the crossbow in her hands to point squarely at him. His mind was blank. I wasn't warned of any others, he thought dimly as he stepped back slightly, his hair moving away from his eyes. The girl said nothing, but then her grip tightened, and she lowered the crossbow to point unwaveringly at his heart.
Oh shit. Think fast, think fast…
The boy's tongue darted over his dry lips. The only sound was the howling gale and pounding rain outside.
Kill only if necessary… Almost immediately, the rest of his body screamed back at him, NO! I CAN'T KILL HER!
The boy's gaze flickered to the open window, then back to the crossbow, the beginnings of a desperate plan forming at the edges of his mind.
Just a little more time…
The slight, almost inaudible creak of the crossbow trigger caught his attention.
No time.
The boy surged, flinging a dagger towards the girl, even as she fired. The two projectiles skimmed past each other, each barely missing their mark. The girl lurched backwards in surprise, the dagger going wide by almost thirty centimetres, thudding into the doorframe. The boy dashed the last metre towards the window, then flung himself out the gap, back into the unrefined roar of the storm.
He grabbed the edges of his billowing cloak, holding it over his head like a parachute, hoping his insane plan would somehow miraculously work.
Pleasepleaseplease…
The wind shrieked, causing his cloak to fill with air suddenly, almost ripping out of his hands as his decent slowed drastically. The fabric dug into his neck, forcing him to hold his breath. He rolled as he hit the ground with an impact, ignoring the seeping mud. A quick glance back revealed the girl, once again pointing the crossbow at him. She shot, but the bolt went wide, the wind snatching it out of the air and dashing it against the ground. The boy rose to his feet, staggering as the wind struck him, and began to run, away from the house, as fast as his exhausted body would take him.
All the while, as he ran, he wondered why.
Why, for the first time, he had not been able to kill.
The girl's face flickered in his mind.
